Gone for Good
by Pinkie Tuscadaro
Summary: A story about Craig and Albert. A little violent at times.
1. Chapter 1

The golf club slammed into the bedroom door and Craig jumped back, the look of fear on his face. Craig was 14, tall and thin, his dark hair curly at the edges. He'd been throwing clothes and pictures and CD's into his black leather bag, packing up and getting ready to go.

The house was beautiful, all a surgeon's money could afford. Everything in it gleamed. The real paintings on the walls had paint as thick as frosting. The carpeting was inches thick and you sunk into it. In Craig's bedroom was every video game system available.

Albert raised the golf club again and smashed it into the door. His eyes, behind the black framed glasses, were narrowed, his teeth bared. He hit the door again and this time it cracked.

Craig was on the phone with his friend Sean, trying to keep the panic out of his voice and failing. Sean heard the panic and heard the sounds of the golf club slamming into the door. He wasn't quite sure what the sounds were but he heard the corresponding panic in Craig's voice and he was worried. But he stayed calm on the phone. He agreed to meet Craig at the railroad tracks and hoped that Craig would show.

Sean hung up the phone, his dyed yellow blond hair dark at the roots. He ran his hand through it, looked at the phone. Shook his head. He'd lived in a trailer park in Wasaga Beach not too long ago and while his own parents were not abusive he'd seen plenty who were. He'd heard the panic in kids' voices before.

Craig threw the phone onto the bed and zipped up his bag and was almost gone out the window when the door opened. The back of his shirt was grabbed and he was yanked back into the room.

"No, you don't," his father said, turning him around and Craig stared up at him, his eyes huge, his heart beating so fast it actually hurt him, and Albert raised the golf club.

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Shaking in reaction, sick with self loathing, Albert threw the golf club into the corner of the kitchen but not without first noticing the blood on it. When the rage had gone, had dried up like some puddle in the desert and he was left with the dust of self recrimination he was close to suicide. It would be better, maybe, if he just turned all this rage on himself. That was Craig, his son, the person he loved most in the world. The person he hurt most. He knew he did.

He knew he was not only doing physical damage to his son but also psychological damage, and which was worse? He sat at the kitchen table, covered his face with his hands. He could see Craig's scared face rise before his closed eyes. The trembling mouth. The barely choked out apologies, but when he was enraged it didn't matter. Nothing could get through.

He thought about the curdled promise of this, thought of Craig as an infant and it was all ahead of them. He could have been such a good father if only he had kept control.

Sean felt the sun beating down on him, kicked a rock that was beside the tracks. When he closed his eyes he could see the twin lines of the railroad tracks going off into the distance. He looked around. No Craig. He tried not to get any more worried.

Craig laid on the floor of his bedroom, the plush carpet getting stained with his blood. It poured from a fairly shallow cut above his eye and a more serious cut on the back of his head, a laceration. He cried weakly. Everything hurt. Everything. His ribs. His back. His head. His arms and legs. He hurt. And he hated his father.

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Sean sat on the tracks, looking at the sun reflecting off the white rocks that lined the tracks. Craig should have been here by now, and he heard those sounds again of something slamming into a wall or door. Heard the panic in Craig's voice. Wondered if he dared go to Craig's house. Shook his head at that thought. Not yet.

Albert left, got in the car and sped off. Afraid to check on Craig, afraid of what he had done, afraid of his anger. He drove at the edge of the speed limit, trying to get away from himself.

Craig heard the front door swing shut and hoped that his dad had left. 'Son of a bitch', he thought. He put his hand against his head and it came away with blood, and Craig looked at it with glassy fear. This was the worst beating yet, and there had been some bad ones. 'He's gonna kill me,' he thought, wiping the blood from his hand onto the rug. He stood up slowly, felt dizzy, held onto the edge of his bed.

Sean looked at his watch. Watched the sun begin to dip lower in the sky. Where was Craig?

Albert wasn't thinking, exactly. He was escaping. Smoking cigarette after cigarette from his stress pack, feeling the speed and the smooth ride of his expensive car, not thinking of Craig and how he had finally closed his eyes and stopped trying to get away. He gave up. Not thinking of the blood he had finally seen pouring down his son's face and into his eyes. Not thinking of the curled up fetal position Craig had been in, his body tensed up against another blow.

In the bathroom mirror Craig stared at the blood that was drying on his face. He looked like he was in a horror movie. He held onto the edge of the sink, closed his eyes against the dizziness, wet a face cloth and wiped away the blood.

Sean stood up, paced, slapped his pockets. He was really worried now. He'd have to go to Craig's house. He was almost forced to. Licked his lips, brushed back his yellow hair with his hand. He didn't want to go there. He really didn't.

The bag was heavy but Craig didn't care. He walked slowly down the stairs, holding onto the railing. His head throbbed. He felt the cut in the back, had pressed a white face cloth to it to stop the bleeding and the thing came away bright red. Outside the garage door was still open and he saw that the car was gone. So the son of a bitch had left. Good. He was leaving, too. For good.


	2. Chapter 2

With every step the dizziness got worse. Craig stopped often, putting the bag down, resting his hands on his knees, waiting for the dizziness to pass. He didn't know where he was going. It didn't matter. He was just leaving.

Sean started the long walk toward Joey's house. He knew where Joey lived, had visited Emma there when she babysat Angela. He knew Joey was Craig's step-father and would, might know where Craig lived.

Albert drove, the speed replacing thought. He smoked, inhaling the smoke into his lungs despite knowing exactly what it would do. Constricted arteries. Irritated lung tissue and delicate air sacs, alveoli. Introduced toxins into his system. Caused drug nicotine related changes in his brain. He didn't care. It felt good. He had to do something to escape himself. What kind of a person was he? He inhaled and exhaled, the smoke gray and sucked into the slipstream. What sort of a man? He couldn't answer that question.

Walking, the sun, the cut that kept bleeding, Craig leaned over and threw up. Everything he had eaten in the last few hours and then dry heaves. The world was spinning. He had never been drunk but this was close. Vertigo. He couldn't focus. He couldn't balance. He set his bag down and sat on top of it, felt the world go gray and then black.

Sean saw Joey's house in the distance, indistinct from all the other townhouses around it. But he'd seen Emma there enough to know exactly which one it was. His worry about Craig rose in his head again. The panic in his voice. And the fact that he didn't show up. Sean shook his head, felt impatient to get to Joey's, to get some information.

He had driven to a bar. Albert crushed his cigarette under his expensive shoe and locked his car. The bar beckoned dimly. Come to me, drown your sorrows. Albert heeded the call.

Craig felt consciousness return, but it was still weird. He barely knew who he was, where he was, everything seemed like a vaguely important dream. It was just something he could think about if he wanted to, and even then it didn't mean much.

Sean knocked on the door, feeling out of place. He shuffled his feet and listened to the movements inside. He took a deep breath. Times like this he felt purposeful and more connected to things than he usually did.

Albert ordered a martini. The drink was frightfully strong and shimmered with its two clear white liquors. An olive bobbed at the bottom of the glass, shrunken oval head. He could smell it, the juniper of the gin sharp and nearly sweet. He'd drink this and then another. He'd forget himself and everything he has done.

Craig sat up, took a shuddery breath. It was coming back to him. His dad, the golf club, the overwhelming pain. He thought he might kill him. It was coming back.

"Sean?" Joey said, puzzled. Emma wasn't here. He'd seen Sean before with Emma. He couldn't figure what he was doing standing on his doorstep on a Friday night.

"Uh, hi. Joey, listen, do you know where Craig lives?"

The martini had gone down nice and easy and he could rationalize with himself again. He'd been a little harsh, he'd been a little _impatient _but it was okay. Things would be fine. And after all, he'd never to it again. Not ever.

Walking again, slowly. Craig took one step at a time, fought the waves of dizziness and nausea that kept coming. He felt like he was going to throw up again but there was nothing left.

Joey explained it the best he could, asked him why he wanted to know. Sean felt the need to lie.

"I was supposed to go over there but, uh, I couldn't find the house, you know,"


End file.
